


The Apostasy of Elim Garak

by AuroraNova



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Deadly Sins Garak/Bashir Fest, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 00:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19051765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova
Summary: Dr. Bashir offers much-needed medical aid to Cardassia. It does not go as planned. With Bashir's life at stake, Garak is forced to confront a deeply flawed state, his own sentiment, and previously inconceivable limits on sacrifice.





	1. 2371/2373

**Author's Note:**

> The event is here! Post your Garak/Bashir fics (friendship is welcome too) all month. You can interpret the theme loosely if it pleases you - consider it a point of inspiration rather than a strict set of rules. A launching pad instead of a cage, if you will. 
> 
> For this, I decided to explore the theme in the sense of what a Cardassian deadly sin might be.

**2371**

Humans came up with the strangest notions. If they weren’t keeping utterly useless animals in their homes (and no one could explain the purpose of pet fish to Garak’s satisfaction), they were inventing preposterous figures who inexplicably paid for the shed teeth of their offspring (Bashir claimed this was no longer common practice; Garak had half a mind to ask Commander Sisko how he marked the occasions for his son, if an opportunity presented itself).

As soon as his lunch companion sat down, Garak remarked on the latest peculiarity he’d discovered. “Doctor, all this time you’ve insisted the Cardassian judicial system is unduly harsh, and now I find out that lust is a capital offense among humans.”

Bashir blinked in confusion, an expression Garak enjoyed far more than he ought. “What?”

“I find it extreme and unwise to sentence people to death for their carnal urges.”

“Garak, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The seven deadly sins, of course.”

“Seven deadly… oh, that doesn’t mean people were executed for… wait a minute, you’re having me on.”

Yes, but only in part. Garak’s curiosity drove him to research this peculiar concept in the Federation database, so his befuddlement was not entirely an act. If he chose to make a point over one single line in their latest reading, well, his entertainment options aboard the station were woefully limited.

“Why would anyone invent the phrase ‘seven deadly sins’ if these transgressions didn’t lead to fatality?” he asked, which may have skirted around Bashir’s comment but was a valid question all the same.

“I’m not a religious scholar, so I can’t say. I think it had something to do with the sins which put one’s immortal soul in the greatest danger.”

“Danger of what?”

“Eternal condemnation,” replied Bashir between spoonfuls of stew. Which Garak already knew, because he’d whiled away a slow morning researching the subject. It was barely any less baffling for his efforts, though he granted it had potential for keeping the population subservient, provided said population was made up of simpletons.

“If one’s soul is truly immortal, deadly is an odd choice of adjective.”

“I’ll be sure to take that up if I ever travel back in time two millennia or so to the appropriate regions on Earth.”

“Oh, we can’t have that, Doctor. I’d hate to be responsible for you breaking your Temporal Prime Directive.” This wasn’t even a lie, if not for any fears on which the rule was based. Garak didn’t care one way or the other about the natural course of human religions. How was he to know he wasn’t living in a timeline which had already been altered? No, his concern was personal. If he was going to be exiled on this miserable station, he’d rather not interfere with Earth history and risk having Bashir be assigned elsewhere or never born at all. Such a change would make his own bad situation worse.

“I take it there’s no Cardassian concept analogous to the seven deadly sins,” Bashir said.

“We have crimes for which the punishment is death.”

“Quite a lot of them, I hear.”

Garak chose to ignore that. “The worst thing a Cardassian can do is nothing so base as overeat or feel rage.”

“Don’t tell me, it’s treason.”

“What else could it possibly be?” asked Garak.

“It seems to me Cardassians have an expansive definition of what constitutes treason.”

Bashir was right on that count. Garak’s presence on the station was proof enough of how broadly actions against the state were defined by Tain if no one else (he conflated himself with the state to an unreasonable degree), and good reason to steer the conversation in a different direction.

“I find it fascinating that treason wasn’t a concern when this list of deadly sins was created,” Garak said.

“It’s a political crime. Sins are moral failures, which are entirely different.”

“Treason is a moral failure.”

“Not necessarily,” said Bashir, and he would think that.

“I think we’ll have to disagree on the point.” Garak didn’t want to talk about a topic so close to his own situation. Instead he began his critique of the main storyline from Bashir’s latest book selection, and in the process elicited a variety of truly rewarding reactions from the doctor.

*****

**2373**

“You can make all the snide remarks about Bajoran faith in the Prophets you like,” said Bashir. “I still think Cardassian reverence for the state is practically a religion itself.”

This was not the first time Garak wondered, since the public revelation of Bashir’s genetic engineering, if his friend wasn’t making a clumsy attempt at Cardassian seduction. Alas, there hadn’t been any other signs besides the bewildering positions the doctor chose to defend, so Garak wrote the idea off as wishful thinking. It was probably for the best. Bashir’s romantic passions burned brightly and fast; his friendships lasted much longer.

“I cannot overstate how wrong you are.”

“I don’t think so. There’s an established orthodoxy in which you place your trust, a codified set of beliefs…”

Garak held up a hand. “Please, Doctor. That could just as easily describe your trust in science.”

“What?”

“Ah, you disagree when the tables are turned, don’t you?”

“I’m willing to question,” protested Bashir.

“Within carefully specified parameters. And that’s not even getting into your faith in the Federation.”

The doctor’s eyes widened in strenuous disagreement. Yes, it was certainly for the best that Bashir wasn’t trying to seduce him. Garak wasn’t sure even he was strong enough to resist indefinitely.


	2. 2376

**2376**

_Well, Elim, sentiment again. Will you ever learn?_

If asked, Bashir (or Lieutenant Dax, or indeed most people in the Federation) would probably have opined that Garak’s tendency to bouts of sentiment, despite all Tain’s attempts to eliminate the trait, indicated strength of character and resilience, or something similarly optimistic. Garak was not convinced.

And yet here he was, rushing off to save Bashir’s life at great personal risk. He’d risen to the rank of Councilor for Reconstruction of Records and Culture, and if that was mainly a position of little influence dreamed up to keep him safely contained because the government didn’t know what else to do with a former Obsidian Order agent turned hero of the rebellion, it was still a vast improvement over his life as an exile.

So why was he ignoring all common sense and self-protection? Because returning to Cardassia had not ended his unwise attachment to Doctor Julian Bashir.

He was home, surrounded by his people again, and if he couldn’t be as useful to the state as he would have liked (the government both needed his celebrity and feared his capabilities), he still didn’t have to rely on Bashir’s company. Or so he’d reasoned when the doctor first arrived, and yet his weekly lunches with Bashir continued to be the high point of his existence, eight months since his exile ended.

Admittedly, Bashir himself had unwittingly made Garak fonder of him when he personally stepped up to lead a medical relief effort on Cardassia, using his status as a war hero to attract resources and enough volunteers that Starfleet sponsored the whole project.

Garak’s lunches with Bashir may have been officially in the name of diplomacy, but he wasn’t fooling himself.

It was particularly difficult to fool himself when he was making haste to Bashir’s base in Lakat. The city suffered even more than the capital and sorely needed the assistance, particularly as the capital received priority in reconstruction efforts. The residents of Lakat were not as affluent or influential and thus not in a position to demand more. Bashir had insisted on siting his relief teams where he deemed them most needed, omitting the capital altogether because he felt it received more than its fair share of resources.  

If asked by his fellow officials, Garak would have never admitted to suggesting underserved locations the doctor might consider.

Fortunately, Lakat was only across a river. Distance was less of a problem than keeping his visit secret. He’d disguised himself, but it was so much harder when his face was recognizable. Garak fervently wished to be anonymous again.

In total, Bashir had seventy-four Federation medical volunteers besides himself, in six different locations around the planet. The effort had saved thousands of Cardassians from death or permanent disability. He personally ran the Lakat clinic, and had grown popular for his dedication and the way he treated patients based on need, not influence.

Despite all this, the government was about to kill him.

Garak wasn’t supposed to know that, of course, but he was not so naïve as to trust his colleagues. (And why should he? They obviously didn’t trust him, either.) Which was why, when he noticed he was being subtly pushed toward more ceremonial duties outside the Council building, he’d placed surveillance devices in Council meeting rooms. Those had yielded the critical information he needed to save Bashir’s life.

He moved under cover of his old ally, darkness. Lakat, as every city on the continent, was unlit at night due to power restrictions. Even Cardassian vision couldn’t spot him easily when he moved in the shadows; Cardassian eyes evolved for dense jungles, not dark nights, and Garak excelled at hiding in shadows.

This late, Bashir’s clinic was minimally staffed for dire emergencies. Garak bypassed the entrance and walked around to the back, where the staff lived in Federation portable housing. He’d insisted on a tour months ago, so he knew exactly which window was Bashir’s.

He rapped on it and waited.

A moment later, Bashir cracked open the window. “Garak?”

“Shh. Let me in.”

The doctor appeared to have been asleep, as well he might at the hour. He wore nothing but shorts. Positively scandalous by Cardassian standards, but it was the middle of a summer and humans were not physiologically well-suited for the climate. As it was, the medical relief team stationed in Tankir consisted solely of Vulcans and Tellarites, the other races represented being unable to withstand Cardassia’s equatorial heat, where even Garak would have been uncomfortably warm.

Garak slipped inside. Bashir, alone of his team, lacked a roommate, because he used the extra space as an administrative office for his operation and was often awake long hours in the process. That allowed Garak to speak more freely than he would have otherwise.

“Somehow I doubt you’re here for a social call,” said Bashir.

Obviously. “You are in grave danger. Contact the nearest Federation ship for immediate pickup.”

Bashir grew immediately serious. “Danger from what?”

“A forthcoming change in the policies of the Cardassian government.”

These leaders raged at their loss of power in the quadrant, loathed the territorial concessions which followed the war, and at last decided the only possible way to salvage Cardassian pride was to take a hard line against the Federation, Romulans, and Klingons. The Federation, being the nearest power and having led the war, took the brunt of their anger.

Bashir immediately went to his computer terminal. After a minute, he swore quietly. “I can’t raise anyone. Something’s not right. The _Calliope_ is due to arrive with medical donations in less than five hours. I got a confirmation this evening that they’re on schedule.”

That was most worrisome. “May I?”

It didn’t take long to uncover the problem. Evidently, his peers had revised their timeline to move days faster than originally planned.

“All subspace communications have been cut off,” he told Bashir. “Your computer doesn’t have an independent subspace connection. It routes through the satellite network, which has been shut down.”

“So where can I find independent access?”

“Those are extremely rare on Cardassia.” It enabled surveillance, for one thing, but the reasons weren’t important.

Garak could see very clearly now that he had a simple choice. He could attempt to save Bashir’s life at the certain expense of his own, or he could let the man die. Treason was death, and in this case, Garak would even agree he deserved it.

He had committed treason during the war, yes, but that was different. Then he was fighting for Cardassia’s independence from the Dominion, where as much as he hated working against his own people, it was necessary for the greater good. Cardassia had to be saved from Dukat’s reckless stupidity, and if Garak needed to work with the Federation to accomplish that, it wasn’t really treasonous in his own mind. Or, for that matter, in the minds of anyone else on Cardassia when he returned.

This was another matter. Helping Bashir escape would do Cardassia no good; if he wasn’t healing people, his existence meant nothing one way or the other to Cardassia.

It meant far more to Garak than he’d ever imagined, or frankly would have liked. He was home. Couldn’t that be enough?

And yet, he knew with certainty that Julian Bashir’s death would be a far greater loss to the galaxy than his own. It was possible – and this was a thing of which he hadn’t thought himself capable – he was quite hopelessly in love with the man.

Bashir’s death wouldn’t serve Cardassia. If it did, Garak could’ve reconciled himself to the idea, as he had once before. No, the doctor was merely a highly visible outlet for the otherwise impotent rage of Cardassia’s ruling class.

“Where do I find one, Garak?”

_Sentiment is the greatest weakness of them all._

“You don’t,” he said. “I do.”

****

Bashir insisted on accompanying Garak. At least he took the time to dress properly. “I won’t leave my staff,” he said, as though that hadn’t been obvious. “Not from this clinic or any other.”

“I’m well aware. Be quiet.”

For once, Bashir managed complete silence. He followed Garak through the back alleys of Lakat until they reached an unattended hovercraft.

“Stand watch,” Garak instructed.

If Bashir had moral qualms about vehicular theft, he wisely chose not to voice them. Within three minutes they were airborne. Garak cut the vehicle’s exterior lights, the better to slink about in the darkness.

“What’s happening?”

“You interact with the middle and lower classes,” explained Garak. “Therefore, you haven’t been exposed to the full strength of ruling class resentment.”

“Towards the Federation.”

“The Federation is merely the most convenient target.” Far easier to blame outside powers than Dukat, who was presumed dead without a satisfactory trial to settle the matter, or worse yet, the entire social and governmental system which had allowed Dukat to hand the Union over to the Dominion in the first place.

Garak could see this clearly now. It had started, fittingly enough, with Bashir, when they looked at the abandoned Cardassian orphans on Bajor and Garak thought how easily it might have been him. In truth, his faith in the state was on an unstable foundation already. Killing the doctor to make councilors feel better about their places in the galaxy was the last step.

So he would die, but Bashir would live. It was a fair exchange.

“Can the _Calliope_ arrive sooner?” he asked.

“Yes. They won’t be going maximum warp unless they have to. The older ships never do.”

Good. He would hate to throw his life away for nothing. “I trust you have the necessary contact codes memorized.”

“Yes. What’s the plan?”

“To evade detection long enough to access an independent subspace communications device.”

“And where is it?”

“My office.”

“Your office? In the Council building?” Bashir asked, incredulous.

“It’s the only office I have.” It was truly unfortunate that no Order strongholds had survived, but they’d fallen into gleefully violent hands since the Battle of Omarion Nebula. 

“And how are we going to get there without alerting suspicion? Last I checked, I wasn’t even allowed inside the Council building.”

“Don’t take it personally. Other races never are.”

“Not the point, Garak.”

“We’re going to transport.”

“So anyone can beam into your office?”

“Of course not,” said Garak. “I have a dampening field to prevent just that occurrence. I’m going to reverse the emergency transporter I set up in the event I needed to vacate my office quickly. You can’t take too many precautions.”

It had taken considerable effort to acquire a personal transporter with long-lasting battery of sufficient power, never mind install it without attracting attention. At the time, he’d envisioned using it to save his life, not to ensure his premature death. No matter. He was saving Bashir.

When, exactly, had the doctor’s life come to mean more than his own? Garak wasn’t sure. It would give him something to consider while awaiting trial.

In a few minutes they were crossing the capital – what remained of it, anyway – toward the Council building, which used to be an art museum of some note and had been commandeered for government use mainly because it was attractively intact.

Bashir attempted to make sense of the situation. “The government wants to blame the Federation, when we’ve been sending aid, instead of the Dominion which caused all this?”

“I didn’t say it was rational. You are convenient, that’s all. There isn’t even a single Jem’Hadar around whose trial might be televised for cathartic purposes.” In retrospect, as satisfying as it had been to kill Weyoun’s last clone, he’d have made an extremely useful prisoner in that regard.

“But I brought seventy-four medical volunteers who will serve perfectly,” said Bashir, and Garak didn’t begrudge the bitterness in his voice.

“I’m afraid so.”

Bashir muttered a Bajoran curse (Garak was sure he’d heard Kira use the same inflection) and balled his hands into fists. “Some thanks for saving thousands of lives.”

“Mine is a harsh world, Doctor.”

“Thank you for giving us a chance to escape.”

Ah, he hadn’t yet realized the inevitable consequences. Garak simply said, “You’re welcome. Approaching the Council building no-fly zone now.”

He landed the hovercraft. The owner would be able to reclaim it with only minor inconvenience once Garak had finished with its computer. It was a simple matter to deactivate his dampening field and reverse the emergency transport, though it was not the most pleasant transport experience of Garak’s life. He rematerialized slightly dizzy.

There was no time to waste, so he went to his communications panel. As it wasn’t reliant on the satellite network, it remained ready to transmit.

“Can you translate the numbers, or shall I?” he asked Bashir. The doctor had been studying Cardassi, but enjoyed very little time for the endeavor, and thus the results failed to impress.

“I know numbers,” said Bashir, and he began inputting the subspace frequency he required. “There. Connecting now.”

In a moment, a voice spoke in crisp Federation standard. “This is Lieutenant Commander T’Sar of the _USS Calliope_. To whom am I speaking?”

“Dr. Julian Bashir, Federation Medical Relief on Cardassia.”

“You are not transmitting from Federation computer.”

“Never mind that. This is an emergency. Authorization Bashir sigma four nine omicron. You need to jump to maximum warp and beam out the entire medical relief team, as well as any other Federation personnel who may be on Cardassia.”

There were no others, at present, unless they’d bypassed all official channels of arrival. Bashir didn’t have to mention any Klingons or Romulans, because they, unlike the Federation, had no interest in helping a vanquished enemy.

“Authorization accepted,” said T’Sar after a moment. “We will arrive in eight minutes.”

“Good. Beam me out last, understood? Don’t be alarmed by the Cardassian you’ll find next to me.”

“Understood. Should we expect hostile force?”

It was a good question. The orbital defenses had been the Dominion’s first target, so they were not a factor, but for all Garak knew ships were assembling. Surprise would be Starfleet’s greatest asset.

“I don’t know,” said Bashir when Garak provided no answer.

“Are you able to keep this channel open?”

Garak shook his head. Best not to chance anyone growing suspicious at the _Calliope_ ’s increase in speed. Eight minutes was still plenty of time to kill people, including the doctor.

“No. Bashir out.” He closed the channel and turned to Garak. “Eight minutes. Closer to seven, now. Can we hold out that long?”

“I believe so. If they plan to arrest you before sunrise, I’d be surprised.” It would make a more powerful statement to have citizens watch the Federation personnel be taken away, and this entire plot was arranged for show.

“Good,” said Bashir. Then, at last, it occurred to him to ask, “Is this signal traceable?”

Garak decided to lie. It would save him dealing with Bashir’s sympathy, and allow the doctor to believe he was alive and content. “No.”

Unfortunately, he failed to account for the doctor’s hard-earned and uncanny ability to sense when he lied. “It is, isn’t it?” asked Bashir, not fooled.

Well, perhaps he merited honesty in this case, anyway. After all, it was his doing. Bashir, through years of stubbornly believing Garak capable of goodness and nobility despite all evidence to the contrary, had finally created a truth.

“Yes,” Garak said. It was an official government computer; of course it was traceable.

Bashir looked at him with raw, undisguised sorrow. “Garak.”

Faced with that much empathy, Garak deflected. “Don’t worry, it will take time, and no one is likely to bother us until after the rescue is affected.”

“That’s not…”

“Tell me, since when do Starfleet doctors have authorization codes to override any passing starship’s orders?”

Bashir accepted Garak’s unwillingness to discuss the consequences of his actions. “Since I’m in charge of a sensitive project with the potential for many complications. And I can only override orders to a certain extent. Mostly it saves me the explanation.”

“Nevertheless, I’m glad to see you embracing caution.”

“It wasn’t my idea.”

“You as in the Federation at large.”

“Garak.” He put a hand on Garak’s shoulder. “Thank you. And I am so very sorry.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and chose not to remark on the sympathy he’d wanted to avoid in the first place. “Let me make sure no one is coming for us before the _Calliope_ arrives. No, don’t stand in front of the window.” Really, that ought to have been obvious.

None of the other councilors were in their offices, which was a promising sign. At a guess, they planned to make their move around sunrise, and had cut off subspace communications early as a precaution. Why they hadn’t waited four more days as previously planned, Garak couldn’t say for certain. Possibly they’d simply grown impatient.

Oh, this explained it. They’d been subtly working community leaders into a frenzy of frustration, which Garak had not failed to observe, thank you very much, and here was a memo suggesting the community leaders were liable to turn their anger against the government sooner rather than later. To capitalize on that rage, the timeline was moved up.

Nothing indicated he and Bashir were in imminent danger of being discovered. No one was approaching his office or attempting to breach the dampening field, either of which Garak would have noticed. It was a pity some other councilor would claim his upgraded security equipment. Perhaps he ought to destroy it just for spite.

Four minutes. Oddly, Bashir wasn’t attempting a final conversation.

“Doctor, would you permit me a small courtesy?”

“Of course.”

Garak had no family to speak of. Cousins might have once existed somewhere, or second cousins at least, but he’d never met them and wasn’t about to start now even if they’d survived. Bashir was the closest he had to a family member, and the only person Garak would ever consider entrusting his secrets to, besides.

“You will find, hidden in the wall of my old quarters, just below the window, a data rod. It contains compromising evidence on several of Cardassia’s leading families, the present Vice Chairman of the Tal Shiar, and two Starfleet admirals.”

“Why… oh my God. This is a shri-tal, isn’t it?”

That explained his lack of conversation. He’d assumed Garak would join him, and they could speak at their leisure on the station.

“I thought you were coming with us.”

“No, Doctor. I will stay and provide the catharsis against cooperation Cardassia needs.” He could serve, even in death. If the state needed a trial to move forward, better to be him than Bashir. 

“They’ll execute you!”

“Undoubtedly. One life for seventy-five is a more than fair trade, don’t you think?”

Bashir gripped his arm, frantic. “Come with me. You don’t have to stay on DS9. I’ll make sure you get a residence permit. You can go anywhere in the Federation, someplace warm and comfortable. Don’t stay here and die, Garak. Don’t make me live with that.”

“It’s my choice. Would you really ask me to shirk the last duty my state requires of me?”

“The state doesn’t give a damn about you, Garak. I do!”

“Then grant me my dignity, please.”

“They can try you in absentia. Cardassia will get its catharsis and you get to live.”

Live for what, exactly? All hope of returning home would be gone, as well as any chance to be of use to Cardassia. And who was Garak without Cardassia?

“Garak, _please_.” To emphasize his point, Bashir put both hands on Garak’s shoulders and held on tightly.

Garak could’ve gotten away easily enough. Even augmented human strength was barely equal to Cardassian, and he had the training besides. No, it wasn’t inability which stopped him. It was the simple fact that his life had never meant so much to anyone before.

No one else in the galaxy would be so anguished at the prospect of Garak’s death. Mila might have been, once, but even she would have given the state precedence over his life. And here was Julian Bashir, wildly distressed over Garak’s pending death.

Distress Garak could end.

_This is why you aren’t supposed to fall in love, Elim. It alters one’s priorities._

It shouldn’t have been so difficult. Somehow, looking at Bashir, it was. Maybe because of his deep affection for the doctor, or due to his waning faith in the Cardassian state; more likely a combination of the two. Either way, Garak wondered if he might, in fact, have good enough reason to preserve himself over offering a trial to focus people’s rage.

He didn’t know who he was without Cardassia, or at the least without placing service to Cardassia at the very heart of his being. It was just possible he could learn, with a bit of help.

And so Garak stayed in Bashir’s grasp, neither of them speaking, until the transporter beam took them. When they materialized aboard the _Calliope_ , Bashir threw himself at Garak in a hug, notwithstanding a transporter room full of people. It was terribly improper by Cardassian standards, but then, so was everything Garak had done that night.

“I have to explain,” said Bashir, placing a decorous amount of space between them again. “Do you want to help, or do you need time alone?”

Time alone was the last thing Garak wanted. He anticipated far too much of it in his future. “I’ll join you. I’m sure everyone wants to know what’s going on.”

“We didn’t know if we were supposed to get both of you or not,” said the crewman operating the transporter.

“You were,” replied Bashir with a meaningful glance at Garak. “Thank you, Petty Officer.”

It was done. Garak could never return home, could not even take solace in offering himself in Bashir’s place as a final service to the state. He had betrayed Cardassia for one human, and seeing Bashir very much alive, Garak had no regrets.

*****

Each and every member of Bashir’s relief crew was safe and accounted for. The _Calliope_ ’s captain had been given a full explanation, which Garak and Bashir were then obliged to repeat to Admiral Ross. By the time these tiresome conversations were over, the ship arrived at Deep Space Nine, where the unexpected passengers departed.

Garak and Bashir were last to leave the _Calliope_ , Garak already missing the thermal layer he’d habitually worn on the station before. He’d have to get another as soon as possible.

Kira met them as they walked out the airlock. “I’m glad you’re safe,” she told Bashir. To Garak she said a sincere, “Thank you.”

He nodded his response, and she went on, “The Cardassian government is threatening to fire immediately on any ships entering their space. How they expect to maintain a fleet when their planet is barely hanging on is beyond me.”

It was possible, if raw materials were requisitioned from other Union worlds for military use. The Cardassian Union existed to serve Cardassia Prime, something many in the Federation never fully grasped. If outer worlds suffered, that was the natural order of things.

“I imagine I’m due for an immediate debriefing,” said Bashir.

“Starfleet Intelligence wants a holoconference as soon as possible,” Kira answered. “They’re asking to talk to you, too, Garak.”

“I’m sure they are.”

“Is mine in your office?” asked Bashir.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” said Bashir. “Garak?”

Having nothing better to do, Garak followed. “Might I ask where we’re going?”

“The infirmary, so I can replicate you something warmer.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

The replicator didn’t offer the best selection, and he didn’t care for his silhouette, but at least he wasn’t so cold.

“I have a feeling this debriefing is going to take a while,” said Bashir. “Yours even longer, if you let it.”

“I haven’t decided if I’ll agree to the request.”

“I’ll find you later,” said Bashir, and with that, he left the infirmary and a very confused Dr. Girani.

Garak nodded politely to the Bajoran doctor, then made his way to Quark’s for lack of any better destination. It only took one glare for Quark to rethink his initial desire to ask questions, or even insist Garak order something besides a complimentary glass of water (which he only provided because Bajoran law mandated water be free of charge.)

Thankfully, Dax didn’t show up and attempt to engage him in conversation or, worse yet, try to talk about his feelings. He was able to consider his options undisturbed for over an hour. They remained few and unappealing.

It was Kira, not Dax, who found him. “Bashir doesn’t know much, so Starfleet is dying to debrief you,” she said.

He’d decided how to respond. He would accede to the general request, but give only that information he deemed fit to share.

Quite simply, he did not feel he owed Starfleet anything. While he couldn’t fault their attempts to gain insight regarding the situation on Cardassia, he’d already done more than enough when he ensured the continued existence of seventy-five Federation citizens.

He hadn’t been willing to let Bashir die as a balm for the wounded pride of Cardassia’s ruling class. That did not carry any obligation to help Starfleet further.

There was, he reluctantly admitted to himself, some benefit to a society which disallowed abducting people for interrogation. Not that Section 31 wouldn’t like the idea where Garak was concerned. He’d have to take precautions against the possibility.

The debriefing took place in Kira’s office. She’d kept Sisko’s baseball, which for all Garak knew might have been a Bajoran religious icon by now. Through conversational finesse, Garak provided less than a quarter of the information Starfleet wanted (and that wasn’t even considering the questions they neglected to ask) while seeming to be far more cooperative than he truly was. It took five hours.

When the last admiral’s hologram blinked out, Kira turned to Garak and said, “You may have fooled them, but not me.”

He’d been afraid of that. “Oh?”

“You didn’t have a crisis of conscience, or lose faith in the Cardassian government, or think it was cruel to kill Federation volunteers who only wanted to help your people. At least you didn’t care about the other 74 of them. You did this for Bashir.”

She wasn’t completely correct. There was inevitably a crisis of conscience involved when a Cardassian committed treason – and to save the life of an alien, no less. Still, her larger point was essentially right. If Bashir’s life hadn’t been at stake, Garak’s faith in the Cardassian state would have been shaken, but probably not enough to work against it.

What an unfortunate time for the colonel to grow perceptive.

“I suppose you’re going to share that theory with the doctor,” he said.

“I won’t have to. He’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Seeing as Bashir’s record consisted of almost eight years of obliviousness, Garak didn’t share her confidence. Or perhaps that was merely his preference.

“What are you going to do now?” asked Kira.

“I haven’t decided,” he said, with complete honesty. He hadn’t expected it to be a concern. Optimally, he’d hoped to save Bashir without alerting anyone to his actions. When that was no longer possible, it hadn’t been such a difficult choice to decide his own execution was a worthwhile price to secure Bashir’s life.

He never thought he’d have to live with the cost, and the prospect wasn’t entirely pleasant. Still, he accepted the consequences because he had achieved his goal. Bashir was alive.

“Your old quarters are free,” said Kira. “They were emptied out. I don’t know if your belongings are still in Unclaimed Property, or have been donated.”

“I will make inquiries.”

“I had your access code reinstated,” she went on. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

“Your hospitality is appreciated.”

When he turned to leave, Kira added, “It doesn’t have to be a bad thing that he figures out the way you feel.”

Garak respected the colonel now. After fighting in Damar’s rebellion with her, he in fact held Kira in higher esteem than most people in the galaxy. Odd as it seemed, he could relate to her. She’d spent her whole life serving Bajor no matter the personal cost, just as he had for Cardassia.

If Cardassia had more people like Kira in positions of authority, the situation might have been different. Garak saw now that selfless devotion to the state was the realm of lower and middle classes. The ruling class had grown selfish and altogether loathsome, which he believed was the root of most, if not all, Cardassia’s problems.

Regardless, Garak thought well of Kira, but such did not mean he wanted her advice on his personal life. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he said neutrally, and left before she could say anything further.

*****

The data rod with useful evidence was still in its hiding spot. Garak hoped Bashir wouldn’t feel obligated to mention its existence to his Starfleet superiors.

What was Garak to do now? Could he really go back to tailoring for the rest of his life? If not that, what would he do with himself?

Uncertain, and not liking his situation or his lack of direction, Garak read all the news reports he could find on the Cardassian government’s new policy. The Federation News Service believed in offering considerably more information than was made publicly available on Cardassia, and two different Bajoran outlets presented the same. It still wasn’t much, because this was what they considered a ‘developing story.’

Garak would have been safe despite the radically different direction taken by the Council. So long as he’d visibly gone along with it and minded his own relatively insignificant tasks, they were content to leave him alone, and showcase him when a hero of the rebellion was useful to their ends. He could’ve kept his position, exerted influence for the better when possible, and most of all been home.

All it would have cost him was letting Julian Bashir die.

He might not have had regrets, but neither did he have a plan for the years and decades stretching before him without any purpose or state to serve, which was disquieting in the extreme.

The door chimed while he was contemplating. As anticipated, Bashir was the visitor.

“Hello, Garak.”

“Good evening, Doctor.” It was evening by station time, though to Garak’s body it ought to have been only afternoon.

“May I sit?”

Garak nodded. Bashir would no doubt feel the need to thank him again, so they might as well get it out of the way.

“I don’t think ‘thank you’ is anywhere near sufficient,” said the doctor, as expected. “All those people went to Cardassia because of me. Because I insisted we had to help. If they had died, it would’ve been the councilors’ fault, I know, but I still would have deserved some blame for convincing them it was a good idea to go to Cardassia at all.”

The one life out of seventy-five Garak cared about was the one Bashir valued the least. How typical of the doctor to place himself last again. Garak sometimes wondered if this was a natural character trait, or one born of Bashir’s guilt over his genetic enhancements.

“Again, thank you. And I am so incredibly sorry.”

Garak attempted to appear only slightly affected. “You’re quite welcome, Doctor.”

“I’m trying to understand,” said Bashir, and Garak had been afraid of that. “You once told me treason is a moral failing.”

“Surely you know better than to think of me as a paragon of virtue. This isn’t the first time I’ve committed treason.”

“But before it was to save Cardassia from the Dominion. It makes no difference to Cardassia if Federation relief personnel are dead or merely gone. In fact, you robbed the people of that apparently valuable show trial. So either our sense of justice and fairness has rubbed off on you, or you had another reason.”

Garak would have liked to point out how presumptuous it was to assume Federation morality was such a strong influence, but that would’ve played into Bashir’s hand too well. He settled for saying, “If you’re looking for a way to thank me, I can’t recommend an interrogation.”

“This isn’t an interrogation.”

“Isn’t it?”

Bashir visibly gathered his courage. Oh, dear. That couldn’t portend anything good. “It was me, wasn’t it?”

“Thinking very highly of yourself these days, Doctor?”

Whoever said the best defense was a strong offense had never tried to deflect a determined Julian Bashir, who only grinned, infuriating man that he was. “In this case, the salient point is how highly you think of me.”

“I don’t see how it matters one way or the other.”

“It matters a great deal,” said Bashir. “All this time I thought you were just flirting for the fun of it.”

He had been, in the beginning. Somewhere along the way it had grown alarmingly real.

“I think you’re looking for subtext where there is none,” Garak said.

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

It had been worth a try.

Bashir grew very serious. “Garak, do you love me?”

There was a human idiom which applied to Bashir. Something about a canine with a bone, which O’Brien thought described the doctor perfectly. “Once he’s gotten something in his head, he won’t give it up for anything,” had been the chief’s explanation, and while Garak wasn’t familiar with the habits of domesticated Terran animals, he agreed with the assessment of Bashir.

Garak could be honest, he could lie, or he could avoid answering in such a way as to give the impression Bashir was mistaken. What he could not do, unfortunately, was avoid the question altogether in a way which would preserve exactly the friendship they had. Bashir, with his usual incautiousness, had removed that option.

“Again, I don’t see why it matters,” he said, hoping to gather more information about the doctor’s feelings.

“How could it not?” asked Bashir with real confusion. “It’s not as though I haven’t been interested.”

Well, Garak hadn’t needed to work very hard for that answer. Still, it didn’t change his underlying concern. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

Bashir was predictably not content to let the answer stand. “Why not?”

“If I may be blunt, your friendships last much longer than your romances.”

The doctor’s romantic history consisted mainly of deeply felt passion which lasted weeks at most. Jadzia Dax had been an exception, in the beginning, but Garak suspected that was as much the thrill of the chase as anything. Bashir and Leeta had managed, what, a year and a half? Not even, and Garak was not inclined to destroy the only friendship he had for a year and a half on the outside.

This didn’t trouble Bashir. “That’s how romances work, until you find the right one.”

Garak wouldn’t know, but he wasn’t reassured.

“Look, Garak, I understand the fear of losing what we do have, though for what it’s worth, I’m not one who finds it difficult to be friends with exes. So I’ll tell you something about myself I’m not proud of, if you’ll be so good as to keep it to yourself.”

“I have some practice in keeping secrets.”

After a moment of silence, Bashir said, “I get bored.”

“Excuse me?”

“In relationships. I get bored, and it sounds uncomfortably close to what the Federation fears about me. That I always want more than anyone else can provide. But it’s been going on eight years and I’ve never been anywhere near bored with you. I don’t think I ever could be. If nothing else, there’s enough literature in the universe to keep us busy the rest of our lives.”

The prospect held great appeal. “You don’t seem to grow bored with your friends,” said Garak, trying to make sense of the confession.

“It’s different. And this isn’t the first time I’ve thought you could be more than a friend.”

“You never let on.”

“I may not be the actor you are, but I’ve been known to keep a secret or two. It was never a good time for us.”

When Bashir failed to elaborate, Garak prompted, “Oh?”

“First I was pining for Jadzia. Then I couldn’t be intimate with you because I was hiding illegal genetic enhancements, which I knew you would spot if anyone could. Once that was no longer an issue, we still had the problem of your trying to commit genocide, and later when people were dying by the tens of thousands I started to understand why, which I hated more than anything. By the time I’d reconciled myself to all that, you were on Cardassia with Damar. Then your exile was over and I never planned to stay on Cardassia permanently, not to mention the damage I could’ve done to your standing.”

“And now?”

“Now is a good time for us.”

Garak considered all of this. It would merit further discussion, particularly the part where Bashir ‘hated more than anything’ that he’d seen why Garak tried to destroy the Founders. War had forced Bashir to face the universe as it was more than he’d indicated.

There was another issue, namely, that Bashir could be ordered across the quadrant in a matter of days. “Starfleet could assign you anywhere.”

“The CMO post here is mine for the taking. Girani doesn’t want it. She’s already requested I come free her from the tyranny of Starfleet bureaucracy, and Kira said I’m welcome. Accepting would give us time to figure out what we need to.”

“Starfleet tyranny? What an intriguing perspective. I might like Dr. Girani.”

Bashir put a hand on Garak’s knee, refusing to be distracted. “I think we could be fantastic together, but we’ll never know if we don’t take the risk.”

The more Garak thought about it, the less of a gamble it seemed. If Bashir was given another post, Garak would see him only rarely; Starfleet allowed consideration for romantic partners that it did not for friends without anyone else in the galaxy who cared half as much.

“I realize humans do these things differently,” he said, “but from my perspective I have very little to offer you.”

Bashir smiled so widely that Garak could hardly believe it was all due to him. “I don’t need a family name, influence, money, or whatever else you’re worried about. Just you.”

That much Garak could give, and happily. It was a risk, but at this point, not such a significant one when he’d already given up Cardassia for the man. He placed his hand on top of Bashir’s. “You were right, my dear. I did it for you.”

“I know. And Elim? You had better start calling me Julian.” That said, he pulled Garak into a thorough and enthusiastic kiss.

Garak settled his arms around Julian’s shoulders, kissed him back, and surrendered.


	3. 2378

**2378**

“It’s a good thing we’ve moved in together,” said Julian.

Garak agreed for any number of reasons, not the least being its suggestion of permanence. One of these days he might even be bold enough to bring up the idea of marriage. Or Julian would; such fearlessness was more his style, as he’d demonstrated four weeks ago when he’d mentioned there were newly renovated two-person quarters available, and would Garak care to share them with him?

“That sounds like you have a specific benefit in mind,” said Garak, setting aside his reading on the latest fashion trends.

He’d returned to tailoring, though he’d taken up dabbling in hybrid flowers on the side. Unfortunately the station’s CMO, who had final say regarding the presence of toxic flora and fauna, refused all requests to sign off on his importing an Edosian orchid. Still, he had a lovely new cross he hoped to enter in next year’s Risan Horticultural Competition, so the hobby was rewarding despite his lack of Edosian orchid.

Julian explained, “It will make it easier to claim the hostile environment exception for the new posting Personnel planned for me.”

“What?” asked Garak. This was the first he’d heard of a new posting.

“I got the message this morning. It’s very flattering that they wanted me for the Mhar Center.”

“I’m not familiar with it.”

“It’s one of the Federation’s premier medical research facilities.”

“I’m glad to see Starfleet recognizing your talents. Why are you declining?”

“It’s on Andor.”

Garak could think of few places he wanted to move less than Andor, and barring Qo’noS, all of them were home to billions of telepaths. And yet, this would apparently be an excellent advancement for Julian’s career.

“Equatorial region, so it’s technically not within inhospitable range for humans. Just barely acceptable. That’s why it’s good we moved in together when we did. Makes it easier for me to explain that my partner cannot tolerate the climate, which is a perfectly valid reason to decline an assignment.”

Yes, that sounded like the kind of allowance Starfleet would make. “I suppose I could stay inside,” Garak offered.

“Oh, no. You’d be absolutely miserable on Andor, and I won’t put you through it. I just have to compose the message, since I didn’t have time earlier.”

Julian didn’t seem unhappy. Garak, on the other hand, suffered from a vague sense of guilt for hindering Julian’s career, and did not like the feeling one bit. “My dear, I hate for you to pass up what sounds like a wonderful opportunity, not to mention a wise career move.”

“I didn’t even consider it,” replied Julian. “Andor isn’t an option as far as I’m concerned. It’s a very small sacrifice I will gladly make to be with you.”

He meant it wholeheartedly, Garak could tell, and since Garak himself had given up a great deal for Julian, he understood the sentiment. Sometimes it was easier to make a sacrifice than to accept one made on your behalf.  

“You can stop feeling guilty,” added Julian.

He had gotten altogether too good at understanding Garak’s moods. Or Garak was allowing him to see more. Probably a combination of both.

Holding his palm up, Garak said, “If you’re certain.”

Julian entwined their fingers, and for good measure leaned in and kissed him. “I’m positive. There will be other opportunities which don’t require you to be a shut-in.”

Garak still had no regrets when it came to what he’d lost to save Julian. He loved Cardassia, more perhaps for what it could be than what it truly was, and he would always miss it. All the same, he no longer believed the state was the vehicle for prosperity and progress he’d once thought it to be. He simply could not support a state which would kill Julian for nothing more than a fit of pique.

“Does Starfleet have research centers on Vulcan?” he asked. “It’s a drier heat than I’d like, but with appropriate humidification, it could be pleasant there.” Admittedly, it was a planet full of telepaths, but he could abide touch telepaths who scrupulously avoided casual contact. What he’d do if Starfleet tried to post Julian to Betazed, he didn’t know. Hack into the assignment files, maybe.

“Not medical research, no. The Vulcans tend to do their own in that regard. Psychic healing powers, you understand.”

Garak didn’t. Deciding that wasn’t the important point, he suggested, “I’ve heard Trill has some lovely jungles.”

“Starbase 112 is more likely,” said Julian. “That’s a major hub of research, or I could get a shipboard posting. Less research and more practice, which is also fine. Honestly, I prefer the chance to do both, but it’s rarely an even split.”

“Do you expect a new assignment soon?”

“It’s hard to say. The mysteries of the Starfleet Personnel division remain unfathomable.”

“How inefficient.”

Julian smiled slightly in the way he did when he was amused by Garak’s jibe but had something more important to say than a direct response. “I’m not in a rush to leave DS9, though I’m not against it either. It’s become home, yes, but I never expected to spend my entire career in one place. What about you?”

Garak decided the situation called for honesty. (That happened in a relationship with a frequency he’d found disconcerting at first but gradually accustomed himself to, within limits.) “I will go where you are, my dear. I can’t say a ship would be my first preference, but I’m nothing if not adaptable.”

Julian kissed him again. This was his ‘thank you for being honest about your feelings’ kiss, which Garak deemed well earned.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Julian said when he stepped back. “Now, I need to write Personnel so we can eat and go to the play. I’ve been looking forward to seeing how you misinterpret it.”

“I will do no such thing.” Garak made sure to act appropriately offended, even though Julian knew it was all part of the game. “Just because you are far more charitable in your assessment of Tellarite plays than the text supports doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“If Tellar had as many murders as you seem to think, the population would be halved.”

“Fictional murders don’t impact actual demographics, and if you keep caressing that ridge, we’re not going to make it to the play.”

“Sorry,” said Julian, not looking repentant in the least. He dropped his hand from Garak’s neck and went over to his computer, content to pass up a splendid opportunity in order for Garak to be healthy and not confined.

If treason was a moral failing, it was the most rewarding one of which Garak had ever been accused.  

 


End file.
